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Authors: Thomas Berger
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illegal U-turn and head back where they had come from—for such he might well have done, in a sudden and unprecedented access of mortal fear.
In another moment, however, he again was in command of himself. The truckdriver was surely not waiting for
him
but rather immobilized by mechanical trouble. John was in fact instantly ashamed of himself and grateful that he had said or done nothing that could have revealed his fright to Richie, whom he glanced at now.
Richie, too, had already seen the truck. “Hey, look!”
“I guess he’s broken down,” John said hopefully.
Richie eyed him. “Maybe we just ought to stop and ask. Maybe he’s in real trouble.”
John took refuge in a sardonic tone. “I doubt it’s life or death.” They were not far from the truck now, but he had yet to see the driver.
“Pull in,” Richie said abruptly. “You can stay in the car if you want. I’ll see what’s what.”
Insulted by the implied slur on his courage, John accelerated onto the shoulder and then had to brake hard, skidding on the loose dirt and gravel, to stop the car before it collided with the rear of the truck.
He jumped out, in a certain disorder. He disliked hearing the sound his old sneakers, normally quiet, made on the gritty shoulder. Before he reached the truck, the driver’s door was hurled open. A burly figure emerged and did not jump but rather descended to the ground with the deliberation of the overweight.
So that his intentions could not be misinterpreted, John quickly said, “Hi. Anything we can help you out with?”
The driver wore a dirty plaid shirt but was clean-shaven and pinkly scrubbed of skin. He spoke in some kind of hick accent. “You mess around with me, and I’ll make you cry.” He was taller than John and wider, but much of his poundage consisted, visibly, of lard, and he looked to be about forty. He held a metal bar.
John had not been in a fight since childhood, and in fact had not been offered one since then. But now that he was out of the car and actually in this situation, he was not unduly apprehensive. He was a salesman, and knew how to talk to people.
“Hey, I just stopped to see if I could help out.” He smiled. “Really. We thought you just might be in some trouble.”
“I ain’t,” said the truckdriver.”
You
are.” He lowered his heavy head, on which the thick hair looked freshly combed.
“Now take it easy,” John said, suppressing his annoyance. “I mean it. If your radio’s out, I’ll be glad to make a call for you at the next phone. How about it?”
“I could of squashed you like a stinkbug,” the trucker said, “in your little gook automobile.” He tapped the iron bar against the palm of his left hand.
John decided it would be cowardly to disclaim ownership of the car at this point, though he had begun to take the weapon seriously. “I didn’t do anything to you,” he said firmly. “You tailgated me and wouldn’t pass when you had the chance.”
The truckdriver said, “And now I’m going to take you apart, smartmouth.”
John did not give ground. “I’ll say it again: I don’t have anything against you. But if you threaten me with
that
, you’re breaking the law.”
The fat man laughed sourly, showing lots of pink mouth. His stomach hung over the waist of his pants, obscuring most of the oversized belt buckle, but that also could be said of the world’s strongest men, the weightlifters of the superheavyweight class.
“This here’s the law of the road, you skunk.” The trucker continued to slap the bar against his other palm as he advanced. “Should of wrote your will before comin’ out today.”
Hands in the air, John began to backstep. “What have I done to you? Take it easy.” He despised himself for the beseeching note that had entered his voice.
“You just think what I’m going to do to
you
,” the man cried with a rage so venomous that John could not stand against it: he broke and ran to the car.
Richie was at the
In another moment, however, he again was in command of himself. The truckdriver was surely not waiting for
him
but rather immobilized by mechanical trouble. John was in fact instantly ashamed of himself and grateful that he had said or done nothing that could have revealed his fright to Richie, whom he glanced at now.
Richie, too, had already seen the truck. “Hey, look!”
“I guess he’s broken down,” John said hopefully.
Richie eyed him. “Maybe we just ought to stop and ask. Maybe he’s in real trouble.”
John took refuge in a sardonic tone. “I doubt it’s life or death.” They were not far from the truck now, but he had yet to see the driver.
“Pull in,” Richie said abruptly. “You can stay in the car if you want. I’ll see what’s what.”
Insulted by the implied slur on his courage, John accelerated onto the shoulder and then had to brake hard, skidding on the loose dirt and gravel, to stop the car before it collided with the rear of the truck.
He jumped out, in a certain disorder. He disliked hearing the sound his old sneakers, normally quiet, made on the gritty shoulder. Before he reached the truck, the driver’s door was hurled open. A burly figure emerged and did not jump but rather descended to the ground with the deliberation of the overweight.
So that his intentions could not be misinterpreted, John quickly said, “Hi. Anything we can help you out with?”
The driver wore a dirty plaid shirt but was clean-shaven and pinkly scrubbed of skin. He spoke in some kind of hick accent. “You mess around with me, and I’ll make you cry.” He was taller than John and wider, but much of his poundage consisted, visibly, of lard, and he looked to be about forty. He held a metal bar.
John had not been in a fight since childhood, and in fact had not been offered one since then. But now that he was out of the car and actually in this situation, he was not unduly apprehensive. He was a salesman, and knew how to talk to people.
“Hey, I just stopped to see if I could help out.” He smiled. “Really. We thought you just might be in some trouble.”
“I ain’t,” said the truckdriver.”
You
are.” He lowered his heavy head, on which the thick hair looked freshly combed.
“Now take it easy,” John said, suppressing his annoyance. “I mean it. If your radio’s out, I’ll be glad to make a call for you at the next phone. How about it?”
“I could of squashed you like a stinkbug,” the trucker said, “in your little gook automobile.” He tapped the iron bar against the palm of his left hand.
John decided it would be cowardly to disclaim ownership of the car at this point, though he had begun to take the weapon seriously. “I didn’t do anything to you,” he said firmly. “You tailgated me and wouldn’t pass when you had the chance.”
The truckdriver said, “And now I’m going to take you apart, smartmouth.”
John did not give ground. “I’ll say it again: I don’t have anything against you. But if you threaten me with
that
, you’re breaking the law.”
The fat man laughed sourly, showing lots of pink mouth. His stomach hung over the waist of his pants, obscuring most of the oversized belt buckle, but that also could be said of the world’s strongest men, the weightlifters of the superheavyweight class.
“This here’s the law of the road, you skunk.” The trucker continued to slap the bar against his other palm as he advanced. “Should of wrote your will before comin’ out today.”
Hands in the air, John began to backstep. “What have I done to you? Take it easy.” He despised himself for the beseeching note that had entered his voice.
“You just think what I’m going to do to
you
,” the man cried with a rage so venomous that John could not stand against it: he broke and ran to the car.
Richie was at the
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